Giri

by Marc Olden

On the Concorde flight from New York to Paris he did, leaving out his own involvement in Michi’s murder.

  Valerie said, “And the head of the task force knows this?”

  “He does. But Robbie will never be brought to justice for any of his murders. He’s too valuable, you see. He’s needed to bring down MSC and Senator Terry Dent. And me, of course.”

  Valerie’s expression almost made Sparrowhawk tell her the truth. But he kept silent as she said, “The only person who can deal with Robbie, truly deal with him, is Manny Decker. Otherwise Mum’s death—”

  She looked away, a fist pressed against her lips.

  Sparrowhawk reached for his drink and looked out of the plane window.

  In the Arène des Sports, the crowd cheered and applauded. Valerie clutched her father’s arm and pointed down to the left. Sparrowhawk nodded. From a passageway that led to locker rooms one floor below, four karatekas strode toward a raised platform in the center of the arena floor. As spectators cheered, photographers and film cameramen at floor level moved in closer to the fighters. Uniformed guards prevented exuberant fans from running out onto the floor. Someone threw a rose at the fighters.

  Decker and Robbie were two of the semifinalists. Decker was matched against a hard-driving, long-legged German, while Robbie was to fight a man whom some saw as the tournament favorite, a Japanese with blinding speed.

  Valerie slipped her hand in Sparrowhawk’s and squeezed tightly, her eyes on the fighters now clustered around the officials’ table. Sparrowhawk saw only Unity. He looked up at the thick glass and steel meshed domed ceiling and wondered if the right man would die here.

  LeClair, who with three members of his task force sat on the arena floor, leaned forward and watched the tall German stalk Decker. It was a four-minute match, three points. Score: all tied up at two points apiece. The German, speedy, and forceful, was damn good at attacking, at leaping in and scoring with punches to the head. Unfortunately for Decker, the German didn’t always pull his punches. He’d made contact twice, drawing blood, but no penalty.

  The German usually faked, a dip of the shoulder, quick motion of the head, a hand thrown in the air, then a forward lunge and that was it LeClair was impressed.

  Decker, however, impressed him even more. The detective was obviously hurt. He limped. His right ankle was bandaged and so were both wrists. There was blood on his gi and LeClair knew about his bad knee. Still, Decker fought a smart, cold-blooded fight. His weapons were his foot sweeps and fast hands. Twice he had swept the German into the air, dropping him hard on the wooden floor, then quickly following up with strong punches to the head and stomach. Mr. Manfred was good, no doubt about it. Too good, maybe.

  The idea that he might make it to the finals and harm Robbie was more than a trifle upsetting to LeClair. And more upsetting was what he knew—that Decker was out to kill Robbie. Sutemi. LeClair could not afford to have that happen, not when he was so close to making the case against MSC.

  As soon as he’d gotten the word that Decker was in the semifinals, LeClair decided that it might be a good idea to hop a plane and maybe have a few words with Mr. Manfred. The prosecutor had even toyed with the idea of having his men grab the detective and sit on him until the tournament was over. Ah, but Mr. Manfred had his own idea on the subject.

  He had simply disappeared from his hotel, leaving another hotel as a forwarding address. When LeClair checked there, guess what? No Mr. Manfred. Seems Decker had known LeClair might make a move. Too late now to do anything about it.

  LeClair turned from the action down on the arena floor to look over his left shoulder. Decker’s partner, Ellen Spiceland, was here, along with her husband. And so were the Harpers, the couple who owned the dojo where Decker trained. Some of Decker’s karate pals were with them and all had their eyes glued to the detective and the German. Yesterday, in the short time left to him, LeClair had ordered his men to question Decker’s friends as to his whereabouts. The friends claimed to know nothing. Turned out they had been telling the truth. Spiceland had been the most uncooperative of all, making it clear that even if she knew where her partner was LeClair would be the last man on earth she’d tell.

  By the time LeClair had learned where Decker had spent the night, it was too late. Mr. Manfred had slept in the Arène des Sports on the same shiny wooden floor where he now fought for the chance to kill Robbie Ambrose.

  A roar from the crowd made LeClair turn back to view the action. Shit, he’d missed it. The German was on the floor, with Decker’s fist an inch from his temple.

  Ippon.Third point. Decker the winner.

  Fuck me, thought LeClair, shaking his head. He looked over his shoulder again. Ellen Spiceland was on her feet, clapping. Decker’s karate friends were hugging each other and slapping palms.

  Disgusted, LeClair looked down at the arena floor. He saw Decker limp to the edge of the fighting area and use his hand to wipe blood from his mouth. It’s up to you now, Robbie baby. Sutemi. If it has to be, then it has to be. Just make sure the right man ends up with a tag on his toe.

  Decker and the German he had just defeated sat on the edge of the platform and watched Robbie and the Japanese circle each other. For Decker, the past four days had been a painful blur. The eliminations, hard, often brutal fights, had been followed by nights made sleepless by injuries and bad dreams. He had faced fighters from South Africa, Korea, Brazil, America, Mexico, Russia. He had dared them all to kill him. Some had tried. All had failed.

  Decker touched his bandaged right ankle, which had been damaged yesterday by a wild, uncontrolled Cuban fighter, who had eventually been disqualified for clinching, then biting Decker’s ear.

  The detective’s right knee ached. He’d taken a few shots there, some accidental, some not. Only the steel brace kept it from collapsing entirely. One wrist had been damaged blocking kicks from a hulking Russian; the other had been hurt when a Brazilian had blocked Decker’s punch to the stomach. Since there was no protective equipment for hands and feet, his face had been scratched and his ankles bled from foot sweeps by fighters who had not clipped their toenails, despite tournament regulations.

  How many fights? He had lost count. Ten, perhaps a dozen. All he knew for sure was that each one had been more challenging than the last. But Decker had a secret. He was already dead. He had accepted the way of the samurai and was prepared to die here in the arena. He had given up his body, his mind; the most he could do with his life was to bring justice to Michi’s soul.

  In this state, with his mind cleansed of all fear, he watched Robbie tie a thin red sash around his waist for identification by corner judges, each of whom had one red and one white flag. You have to win, thought Decker.

  Four-minute match, three points.

  The referee, a powerfully built Japanese in shirt sleeves, tie and stocking feet, and himself a former all-Japan karate champion, placed a whistle in his mouth.

  “Rei!” Bow.

  He lifted his right hand, eyed both contestants, then dropped the hand.

  “Hajime!” Begin.

  In less than a minute the speedy Japanese scored two points on kicks that sent white flags high in the air. The crowd loved it. Decker didn’t. “Come on,” he muttered. “Go for it, you son of a bitch. Go for it.” He willed Robbie to hear him, to react, to fight back.

  Robbie, in a gi of yellow silk, the name Robbie stitched across his shoulder blades, backed away. His hand went to the gold stud in his left ear. He appeared unconcerned, too unconcerned, Decker thought.

  The detective thought of Michi. One more point, just one and Robbie would be lost to him forever, swept from the arena by LeClair. Here, in a public place and in front of thousands of witnesses, the detective could kill Robbie and get away with it. Accident. That would be the verdict. Killing him outside of the arena was another matter. For the first time since the tournament began, Decker felt anxious. He saw the possibility of failure. He clenched his fists. Robbie must not lose. “Get him,” he whispered. “Get him.” />
  And then almost magically, Robbie responded. His best weapon was the spinning back kick and he used it well. He scored once for a full point then with only seconds remaining he caught the charging Japanese with a face punch that staggered him. The punch, however, was not ruled deliberate. The Japanese had run into the blow. When the match ended both fighters were tied with two points apiece.

  A two-minute overtime was announced. Sudden death. First man to score a single point won. Decker held his breath. He watched both fighters stand on their taped marks and bow. And it was as though Robbie had read the Japanese’s mind. A second after the bow the Japanese, always aggressive, leaped at Robbie, who timed his back kick perfectly, spinning around to catch the Japanese in the stomach, stopping him in place. Four red flags went up. Decker, excited and relieved, led the long and loud applause.

  From the officials’ table in front of the fighting platform, a French-accented voice said in English, “Ladies and gentlemen, kindly remain in your seats. After our fourth demonstration of the day, a series of weapons katas by a team from Hong Kong, we will then conclude with the grand championship. This will be a four-point six-minute contest between Mr. Manfred Decker of the United States and Mr. Robbie Ambrose, also of the United States. The winner will receive the suibin trophy.”

  As the announcement was repeated in different languages, the audience applauded. Both the German and the defeated Japanese wished Decker and Robbie good luck before leaving the platform. The two finalists themselves left the platform, but stayed on their respective sides. Decker thought of Michi, of dying, of love and duty.

  When the Chinese left the platform, Decker and Robbie climbed on it again and began to stretch. After stretching, Decker loosened the screws on his knee brace and flexed his knee. He sat down, removed the bandage around his ankle, then retied it tighter. He tightened the bandages of his wrists and when he looked across the platform he saw Robbie staring at him.

  Sutemi.

  Neither man said the word out loud. But it hung in the air between them, a reminder that one of them had only minutes to live. The referee stepped up on the platform and the four corner judges found their seats. A half dozen Japanese officials conferred among themselves, while timekeepers tested stopwatches and buzzers. To the right, doctors and nurses moved chairs to within several yards of the platform. Photographers and film cameramen circled the platform, shooting the silent fighters.

  Decker touched his nose and his ear. No blood. There was a sharp pain in his ribs, an injury he had forgotten about. He put it out of his mind, and circled his foot to loosen his bound ankle.

  The referee motioned him and Robbie to their tape marks, facing each other four feet apart. The karatekas held each other’s gaze. Neither man would look away. Decker saw Michi, heard her voice, heard her say his name.

  “Rei!” They bowed, eyes still on each other.

  Decker touched the hachimaki. I am already dead.

  He bit down on his mouthpiece. Robbie did the same.

  Sutemi.

  “Hajime!”

  Decker sidestepped to his left, stopped, then began circling to his right Robbie shifted stance, left foot forward, hands protecting his face in a boxer’s high guard. Decker wore the red sash.

  Robbie struck first. Inching forward, he suddenly jabbed with his left fist, followed by a quick right cross, both of which fell short, as they were meant to. The spinning back kick was his weapon. That’s what he used. He threw it hard and fast, striking Decker’s sore ribs.

  Four white flags went up.

  “Ippon!” One point. Robbie.

  It took all of Decker’s self-control not to touch the damaged area. He must not show Robbie that he was hurt.

  The referee signaled both men to their marks, signaled them to bow, then, “Hajime!”

  Decker attacked low, using his left foot to attempt a sweep, then spun around and aimed a backfist at Robbie’s head. Robbie took one step back, ducked and countered with a right hook aimed at Decker’s liver. The detective leaned out of range, men shot the fastest side-thrust kick he could at Robbie’s stomach. Robbie, on his toes, danced out of range. Decker pursued, bringing up his right knee to kick at Robbie’s stomach. But before the kick could be extended Robbie jammed the ankle, Decker’s sore ankle.

  Limping, Decker backed off and Robbie circled, stopped, changed directions, stopped again. Waited. The two men stared as 12,000 people silently watched. Suddenly Robbie hopped-skipped toward Decker, and lashed out with a side-thrust kick again to the sore rib. The pain clawed its way to Decker’s eyes, then down again to his chest.

  “Ippon!” Four white flags. Second point Robbie.

  And that’s when Decker knew what Robbie was doing. In a four-point match he would first have to prove his superiority. He would score three times. The fourth point would be Decker’s death.

  I am already dead.

  With nothing to lose, Decker gambled. Throwing his right hand at Robbie’s face as a distraction, he swung his right leg low, a hard sweep at Robbie’s left ankle. Quickly, Robbie lifted the left leg high and out of danger. But instead of backing away, he dropped the left leg to the floor and with his right leg kicked twice at Decker’s left side, the ball of his right foot smashing hard into Decker’s left forearm. Thigh and hips went into the kicks, making them strong, deadly. The kicks sent Decker to the floor. The roaring crowd was on its feet.

  Decker’s left arm was on fire. He didn’t bother to use it to help himself from the floor. The severe pain racing up and down his left side told him the left arm was now useless. Cradling it with his right hand he attempted to rise but fell back.

  “No point!” barked the referee, who also signaled for a time out.

  Robbie calmly walked to his mark, dropped to one knee and removed his dripping mouthpiece. He wiped his forehead with the back of one hand. His eyes were on the floor in front of him and he seemed indifferent, almost bored. No need for concern or worry. He knew how the fight would end. It would end as all his fights did, with one exception. Decker would not just be defeated. He would die.

  Dizzy with pain, Decker needed the referee’s help to make it to his feet and leave the platform. His left arm throbbed. He could barely close the fingers of that hand. The fist he made with it was useless.

  As the audience watched, a French doctor examined the arm, then said, “It is broken, monsieur. I am afraid there can be no more fighting for you.”

  A seated Decker, the arm resting on his thigh, shook his head.

  As the doctor and two nurses conversed rapidly in French, the referee and several of the Japanese officials came over to Decker. Decker eased himself from the chair and stood up. His knee was worse. It would give way under him. The metal brace would not be able to prevent that from happening.

  “Tape my arm to my stomach,” he said.

  “I cannot allow that,” said the doctor. He was small, bearded, imperious and used to being obeyed. “That is not a game anymore, monsieur. With one arm you will surely be hurt, perhaps killed. No, I cannot allow that to happen.”

  Ushiro Kanai stepped from the group of officials. He and Decker held each other’s gaze, then Kanai said, “This is, after all, a championship match. Its purpose is to remind the world of samurai spirit. Such a spirit does not accept defeat If Mr. Decker feels he can continue, we must respect his wishes.”

  Giri. Kanai had paid Decker what he owed.

  “Fou,” snapped the doctor. Crazy.

  The damaged arm was placed inside Decker’s gi and taped against his stomach, first at the wrist, then at the forearm. He refused medication. Drugs would only dull his reflexes.

  When he climbed back onto the platform, a limping, one-armed fighter in a blood-spotted gi, the arena rose in a standing ovation. Sparrowhawk got to his feet. A solemn LeClair stood. The building expanded with cheers and soon the cheers became an ongoing explosion. Robbie looked around, then across the platform at Decker and this time the security guard did not look away in contempt
. This time he eyed him thoughtfully.

  The referee walked over to Robbie. A warning against further roughness. Only the fact that this was the final bout coupled with Robbie’s record of clean fighting and sportsmanship in the tournament prevented him from being disqualified. Robbie bowed. Then he walked across the platform and extended his hand to Decker. The detective took it without a word. The applause and cheers continued. Not even the announcer’s pleas for quiet could stop the clamor.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, please be seated. Please allow us to continue. One minute remains in the match. Only sixty seconds. Mr. Ambrose leads Mr. Decker three points to none.”

  One minute. Sixty seconds in which to kill Robbie. Or lose him forever. Decker called on his kami, on Michi. Help me, help me …

  “Rei!”

  “Hajime!”

  Robbie charged, then stopped. Something in Decker’s face bothered him. And in that instant Hachiman spoke to Robbie. You cannot kill a man who is already dead. There is nothing that can destroy a man who has accepted the way of the samurai. He is also protected by a most powerful god, one stronger than I, the god that was once Michi, the woman. A god of love, a god that not even war and death have been able to defeat.

  Robbie felt fear. Hachiman had always been the strongest of gods. Defeat was unknown to him. There was no god but Hachiman. But even as the words flashed across Robbie’s mind he felt the god of war pulling away from him. Pulling away …

  Kill Decker quickly. Yes, that was it. Kill him before Hachiman disappeared. Kill the last of the Saigon ghosts and be the bushi of all time.

  Using his right leg Robbie threw a power front-thrust kick, then withdrew the leg and with all of his strength swung a right cross at Decker’s head and cried out, “Hachimannnnnn!”

  For Decker, all fear was gone. He would meet Michi once more, meet her at Yasakuni, at the sacred Tokyo shrine. Hai, it would be good to die.

  When two tigers fight, one hurts, one dies.

  Decker attacked. And never knew that he attacked. His body did not belong to him anymore; his mind no longer existed. He willed no action, made no decision. Later he could only say that he had no memory of those last few seconds.